


Dark Episodes

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Necromancy, One Shot Collection, Suspense, everybody dies at some point, horror au drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:32:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horror AU one-shots. </p><p>1. In Erebor, Bilbo and Thorin both act odd. The others eventually find out why.<br/>2. After Smaug is dead, Bard enters Erebor to investigate. He finds out what has become of the company of Thorin Oakenshield.<br/>3. After the battle, Bilbo is never found. But soon a familiar specter begins to haunt Thorin, and threatens harm to his kin.<br/>4. A skinchanger's bite may save lives. However, those bitten do not retain control of themselves in animal form.<br/>5. The company runs afoul of the Old Forest. Bilbo makes a trade to save them.<br/>6. After the battle, Thorin does not quite realize he's dead.<br/>7. There are still dwarves in Erebor. Dwarves who worship Smaug.<br/>8. Thorin wakes up, confused. It feels as if the battle has ended yesterday, but Bilbo looks worn, older.<br/>9. Bilbo gets a chance to do the quest over again. It's not what it seems.<br/>10. Melkor made the hobbits. Bilbo remembers that when all is lost.<br/>11. The injury is fatal. But there is a way, Bofur says.<br/>12. Thorin and Bilbo retire to the Shire and time slows.<br/>13. They reclaim Erebor. And find a cursed grave.<br/>14. The One Ring falls in love with Bilbo.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this one has character death, ghosts and necromancy. [fondirritation](www.fondirritation.tumblr.com) prompted me; the original was posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/123141325287/stay-with-me).

”Are you alright, laddie?” Balin inquires of a shaky-looking Bilbo. The hobbit glances nervously after Thorin who strides away from Erebor’s grand hall, long strides certainly directed toward the treasury. 

“Quite,” Bilbo mumbles, and then out of nowhere he stumbles backwards, “Oh, excuse me, Balin.” He turns on his heel and hurries after Thorin, footsteps frighteningly silent.

* * *

”What’s this?” Kili asks, pointing to an unusual inscription carved into one of the broken pillars they pass on their way to the old library. A circle with one peculiar symbol in its middle and several runes surrounding it. 

Fili shrugs. “Don’t know.” The runes, while dwarven, look different. Strange even and a shudder runs down his spine. “Perhaps some old markings?”

Kili hums, leaning forward to study them more closely. “These are curious - I found another set with Bofur yesterday and he said they looked rather fresh.”

Fili sighs. “Maybe the dwarves that were trapped when Smaug came left them,” he offers glumly. Around him the walls seem to shrink and he’s glad when he catches his first glimpse of the sky. 

Out on the wall, a fierce wind greets them. Smoke rises from Dale, the situation has not changed. With a sigh, Fili and Kili turn to head back and report to Thorin. And there, carved into the stones of their hastily rebuilt wall, Fili discovers another circle.

”I am glad you are with me,” Thorin mutters, slumped on his throne. Next to him, Bilbo says nothing. 

* * *

“These?” Ori asks.Fili and Kili nod emphatically, both pale. 

“They’ve been appearing everywhere,” Kili states and Fili adds: “At first I thought they were left-overs. But we found one outside on the wall. There wasn’t anything there when we put it up!”

Ori blinks. “You mean you think one of us put them there?”

Kili shrugs. “Maybe? Could have anything else done it?” Fili casts a nervous glance toward the entrance of the grand library, but they are alone. Only Balin comes here from time to time, but he’s busy trying to talk sense into Thorin.

”No, no,” Ori mutters, tracing the sketch Fili brought along, his forehead wrinkling, “These are strange runes. They seem to…oh.”

”What is it?” Kili asks, and sees Ori abruptly paling. “Ori?”

The young librarian swallows audibly. “These are spells. Dark spells.”

* * *

Dwalin does not know what brought him down to the tombs. Perhaps a need to escape, withdraw from the madness consuming the mountain. The dead are good company; he often hid here in his childhood. 

Footsteps have disturbed the dust; a trail leading forward to the tombs of Durin’s line and returning from there. Dwalin is about to dismiss them, but a rust-colored spot catches his attention. He has seen much blood in his life, he recognizes it in its dried form. And yet it’s not old enough to belong to those felled by Smaug. 

Dread coils in his stomach. Smaug has boasted no one had entered the mountain during his reign. They are the only ones here - and he saw all of them up. Fili and Kili, Ori, Dori and Nori, Bofur, Bifur and Bombur, Oin and Gloin, his brother, Thorin and Bilbo. They are all on the upper levels.

Who then bled here?

* * *

”What spells?” Fili asks anxiously.

Ori runs a hand through his hair. “These runes form a field - a space within which the dead can, well, exist.”

”The dead?” Kili squeaks abruptly and Fili bites down on his lower lip. Ori grimaces: “This is directed at someone particular - the central rune represents them, but I have no idea who it could be.”

Or who could have carved these circles. Erebor’s dead have long since passed on. These circles, Ori thinks, only work with the recently deceased. 

* * *

More, and larger splatches of dried blood mark the path Dwalin follows. His axe at the ready, he steps into one of the burial chambers - it is empty. The air is utterly still, undisturbed. As it had always been in the tombs.

And yet the dust is disturbed.A coffin has been opened, Dwalin realizes. It is small, and he cannot quite recall who is buried here. Disquietend, yet determined he steps over, sees the lid has shifted - glances down.

And finds the motionless body of Bilbo Baggins there. 

Death has drawn all color from the hobbit’s cheeks, and while blood discolours his shirt, he has been laid into the coffin with great care. Only that Dwalin just saw Bilbo with Thorin moment ago. Unhappy, but alive. 

Then recognizes the rune written in dried blood on Bilbo’s forehead. The pieces fall into place.

* * *

“The spell,” Ori says darkly, “allows those it is cast upon to rise and take form. A continued existence - but one utterly dependent on the spell’s caster. It is why the spell was forbidden - it rendered the soul of the deceased bound to the caster.” 

* * *

“I would have stayed,” Bilbo says quietly while Thorin bends down to press a kiss on his forehead. Stayed the hobbit may have and yet so many things might have taken him away from Erebor, away from Thorin.

The spell, however, will tie them together for eternity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard comes to the mountain in search of Thorin's company. He finds Thorin and Bilbo.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by anonymous, original posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/123385877562/horror-prompt-7-or-a-slight-chance-of-pace). Warnings for fairly gruesome, if implied. character death.

After having stopped in Dale for the night, Bard sets out with a small group of other survivors to Erebor. They find the entrance in shambles, stones and walls bearing marks of a ferocious fight. Smaug must have been terribly angry, Bard thinks and shudders. The destruction wrought upon Laketown has been seared onto the back of his eyelids.

The mountain remains silent and he wonders if the company of Thorin Oakenshield has been slain by the beast, too. He is conflicted - they have woken the dragon, the blood of the many dead in Laketown is on their hands - and yet they do have a claim to this mountain, and should the dragon have claimed their lives, too, it was a terrible price to be paid.

“Should we go further?” one of the men asks. Bard hesitates - a faint greenish glow lights the passages, but they do not know the layout of the mountain.

“We brought torches, chalk and yarn,” one of the women comments, “We’ll manage.”

Bard nods. “We need supplies and see if we find a better place to shelter.” Winter will soon be upon them and Dale is a city of ruins."

* * *

 

The first dwarf they find is dead.

Bard recognizes the star-shaped hairdo. He remembers him entertaining Tilda with sleight-of-the-hand tricks when the dwarves stayed at his house. But he knows fate is cruel and unfair.

The only thing that makes him wonder is that the body is whole, seemingly untouched. He’d expected the dragon’s wrath to have burnt the body beyond recognition.

The deeper they proceed into the mountain, the more bodies they find. There are the remains from those that died decades ago when the dragon first came. They also find more of Thorin’s Company. Two young dwarves - Fili and Kili, brothers, if Bard recalls correctly, lie under blankets as if asleep. Their pallor and the lack of movement in their chests pronounce them dead.

“Poor sods,” a man from Bard’s companions exclaims. Indeed, Bard thinks, what a terrible waste of live. After they fought so hard to save Kili, to see him now dead comes as a hard blow.

“At least somebody mourned them,” another person comments. And it does look as if they had been arranged for burial, after all. Makeshift and hasty, but probaly best under the circumstances.

* * *

They pass further bodies. Four, Bard has known: a rotund dwarf with his lips now purple, one with his head missing, a red-haired dwarf with a large hole in his chest and the well-spoken, white-haired dwarf with his body almost cleft in half. None of the injuries are what they would have expected from a dragon.

They move on quickly. Around them, the light gains a golden hue and they must be approaching the treasury. Only this, Bard tells himself, and then they will leave. Only the very upper layers of this mountain are fit for inhabitants, the rest is a tomb.

* * *

A little ways from the treasury they find another member of Thorin’s company.  
Bard recognizes him. Bofur, he was called and death has not only taken his energy, but also his hat. It lies several feet away, turned dark with blood. A dried puddle of it surrounds the dwarf’s head like a rust-colored halo, and Bard thinks his children will be grieved to learn of his fate.

“He’s one of the ones that stayed with you, wasn’t he, Bard?” an elderly man asks.

Bard nods.

“Then it wasn’t the dragon that killed him,” somebody else concludes. One of the women crouches down, “He’s got something in his hand.”

“Let me see!” “What is it?” A short shuffle eventually pries a bloodstained letter from Bofur’s cold hand. Bard flinches when the hand drops back to the ground, thinks the dwarf may have deserved better, while his companions unfold the letter.

It’s barely legible.

But what can be read sends a chill down Bard’s spine.

“… mad. The gold has … A corruption that … of great evil.”

“I’m going back!” one of the men proclaims loudly, “This mountain is cursed!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” a woman replies sharply.

“The dragon’s cursed this place,” another woman mutters, “It’s utterly evil. Look around, I’m telling you the dragon made these dwarves kill each other! If we stay - “

“That’s -!”

“Everyone,” Bard calls and is glad when they settle, “Everyone. Feel free to go back. This place makes me uneasy, but I believe we will need some gold from the treasury to get through the winter.”

* * *

One man joins him. As they step into the treasury, they fall silent, freeze. Gold covers the ground, piles high and forms mountains and valleys. Never in his wildest dreams has Bard seen so much - had not known so much gold even existed.

“Welcome Bard, dragon-slayer!” a familiar voice proclaims, “To the Kingdom of Erebor!”

The man next to Bard gasps, collapses. Dark blood leaks from his lips, he struggles for breath. Even as Bard drops to his knees and searches the wound that appeared out of nowhere, the light in his eyes fades.

When he looks up, Thorin Oakenshield has appeared high upon the mountains of gold, wrapped in black fur with golden thread and a heavy golden crown upon his head.

“Have you come to rob me?” Thorin asks and Bard sees the spark of madness in his eyes, “Have you come to take what is mine? This gold - I will not allow any to take it!”

Bard thinks of the blood-stained message in Bofur’s hand, thinks of the many dead dwarves he saw and grows angry. He stands, reaches for the dull blade strapped to his side. “You are mad” he shouts, “The gold has driven you mad! You are not better than a dra -”

A sharp, acute pain pierces his chest. Bard trails off, glances down. Sees the sharp point of a blade emerge from his chest before it is pulled out. Weakly he reaches up with an already numb hand to put pressure on the wound, but his knees give away and he hits the ground.

The world blurrs, grows fuzzy. Darkness dances at the corner’s of his vision, breath rattles in his chest. Above him, the air shifts.

Bilbo Baggins appears out of nothing, a blood-stained blade in one hand, a small golden ring in the other. His eyes glitter, an unholy shine to them. “I do not like thiefs, Master Bard,” he quips easily as if he hadn’t just stabbed the man, “Nor do I like those that have intentions on what is mine.”

He steps back, Bard’s vision flickers. When it clears, Thorin stands next to Bilbo, each mad, but in a different fashion.

“You won’t,” Bard gasps, weakly, “The others … will find out.”

Thorin’s expression darkens, but Bilbo’s smile widens. “Will they?” he asks pleasantly, “None of the dwarves made it out of the mountain. Laketown has burned, you took care of Smaug.”

“Dale…” Bard gasps, vision tunneling.

“Oh yes, Dale,” Bilbo laughs, terribly, “There is a shadow coming for Dale. Do not worry for your friends, Master Bard - they will soon join you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After battle, they never find Bilbo. But soon, a specter shows up, haunts Thorin and threatens to kill his kin. Guilty as he is, Thorin will not allow others to suffer in his stead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: character death and violence. Originally posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/124596988937/horror-prompt-bilbo-dies-thorin-thinks-he-sees).

The Battle ends with many dead. Thorin grieves, as dwarf after dwarf is carried in, with missing limbs and crushed skulls, while Dain, face set in hard but sympathetic lines pats his shoulder, “A warrior’s death at least. Mahal will welcome them.”

It’s a small consolation. 

First, Thorin had taken courage in seeing his company alive. Sporting cuts and bruises, missing fingers and toes, but standing on their own and undeniably alive. Then, as the day grew longer, one member of their own remained missing.

”We will find your burglar,” Dain promises.

But Bilbo Baggins is not found.

Guilt suffocates him to the point he takes little pleasure in his reclaimed home. He is glad to see Fili and Kili recover, glad to see his kin thrive. But he cannot stop thinking of Bilbo, of that bright smile he has lost forever.

For while his companions deny it, Thorin knows better than to hope. Bilbo is dead, he must have perished during battle, alone and friendless. No declarations from Thorin, no posthumosly bestowed honor can undo this.

* * *

It begins with Thorin catching a movement from the corner of his eye. The hour is late, he has brooded long over paperwork, his eyes are tired and the air is still. Until something shifts behind him. 

Thorin blinks, turns his head. The corner of his room is empty and how should anything have been there - the door remains closed after all. He shakes his head with a heavy sigh, resolving to either get his work done or go to sleep.

And something brushes past him.

He flinches, the inkwell tilts over and dark liquid spills over his papers. Thorin stares at the thick liquid, thinks it spreads like blood and then looks at his shaking hand.

Did he push the inkwell over? He must have, for any other explanation forbids itself.

* * *

When he returns to his rooms the following night, he finds the door has been vandalized. The guard shudders, Dwalin yells, while Thorin stares, spellbound at the letters scrawled out in thick red ink. 

“Remember me?” it reads.

* * *

Sleep comes late, and Thorin spends much of the night tossing and turning. Dwalin insisted on posting two guards outside of his rooms, but Thorin does not feel safe. He should, he knows. There is likely a rational explanation, and Balin has been telling him of unhappy nobles desiring recognition. 

Likely one of them is behind it.

And yet his body feels wary, exhausted, when he rises the next morning. The air in his chambers seems dead, stifling and he shivers. Water may bring relief, Thorin tells himself, though he does not believe it.

Instead, when he rinses his face and glances into one of the large mirrors, he finds somebody standing behind him.

With a gasp, Thorin spins around, reaching blindly for a sword that isn’t there.

But his bathing chamber is empty and silent. Nobody but him and his frantically pounding heart are there.

* * *

For two days all is silent and Thorin has half a mind to put the strange episode behind him. There is much that requires his attention and while Balin and Fili offer their support, he would rather they enjoy the spoils of their hard work for a bit.

He will care for the kingdom - his duty to uphold, after he failed his hobbit. 

As he is bowed over documents late once more, the air shifts. 

“Hello Thorin,” a familiar voice greets and Thorin looks up to see Bilbo smiling sweetly at him, “Remember me?”

He freezes, blinks, but the apparition does not vanish. Bilbo hovers there, silent, pale and Thorin knows if he was to reach out, his hand would pass through him.

“Bilbo,” he whispers, “You…”

Bilbo’s face twists. “Have you forgotten me already? Or were you glad to move on? One person less to share the gold with, after all.”

Fury glitters in his eyes and Thorin flinches. “No, I’m sorry, Bilbo, I never …” he shakes his head, desperate to make his grief known, to make Bilbo understand, “We didn’t know where you had gone, nobody could remember seeing you. Please, if you could just lead us -”

“Liar,” Bilbo interrupts coldly, “You never meant to -”

A knock on the door interrupts him. “Thorin,” Dwalin calls, “Everything alright?”

The apparition is gone. “Fine,” Thorin calls back, his voice hoarse, “Fine.”

* * *

From then on, he begins to see Bilbo everywhere. Standing among the nobles of his meetings, hovering in the dark corners of council chambers, drifting along Thorin through Erebor’s vast corridors.

And always, always, the hobbit is angry. “I died because of you,” he accuses Thorin, “This is all your fault!”

No words can assuage them - but, Thorin knows, there are no words that ever could. Bilbo paid with his life for Thorin’s foolishness and death cannot be undone. This injury will never heal.

So Thorin will allow this specter to curse and rage at him, even though Fili and Kili and Gloin and Oin and Balin and Dwalin all begin to worry for his health. 

“Guess what,” Kili tells him one day, but Thorin’s eyes are fixed on the specter that glides along, “We got a letter from the Shire.”

He nods, not hearing a word. “You know,” Bilbo says, “It is terribly unfair I was the only one to die.”

“… wrote he might come and visit,” Kili tells him cheerfully, “In spring, with the next caravan, even.”

“Why couldn’t your nephews die?” Bilbo asks, glaring at Kili and Thorin’s blood runs cold. Threats against himself he does not mind - he deserves, but not against his kin. Not when he is so thankful his nephews can still smile after all he put them through. 

“Ohhh,” Bilbo crows, grinning at his reaction, “How about it, you watch your company die. Perhaps then, you will under -”

“No!” Thorin exclaims loudly.

“Uncle?” Kili asks, pale and unsure all of a sudden. 

Thorin’s heart breaks. The specter is gone, only his nephew remains, watching him warily. “It’s nothing.”

* * *

Bilbo may be a ghost, but he must be more. For all of a sudden, there are curious accidents.

A mine collapses and almost buries Bofur. A lower corridor floods, destroying the restoration work Dori had been overseeing. A heavy bookshelf almost collapses on top of Ori.

And under Fili and Kili a stone staircase gives away.

They survive with bruises and sprains, laughing at the strange turn. Bofur is astonished - even with his near perfect stone sense, he had never noticed the stairscase destabilizing. Dwalin assures him that no foul play is at work.

But he needn’t.

Thorin knows now who is behind is. Sees the grinning specter floating at every secene of accident, promising “the next time I won’t miss.”

* * *

Enough is enough. Thorin will not sit by while his kin is threatened and harmed. Much as this is his fault, he will not allow Bilbo to claim those precious lives. His own, the hobbit may gladly take.

From the depths of Erebor Thorin retrieves an ancient blade. Tingling wth old, forgotten magic, it is one of a kind. Forged for the great wars of bygone ages, it can cut flesh and spirit. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin calls as he finds the specter not there.

“Here,” the specter chimes and from a distance he hears Dwalin say, “Just arrived. Main hall.”

And with the blade at the ready, Thorin makes his way down.

* * *

“Glad to be back,” Bilbo laughs, embracing Kili ones again.

Gloin pats his back. “Glad to have you,” he says, “We were happy when you wrote you were alive, but it’s better to see you in person.”

“Sorry for disappearing and worrying you,” Bilbo explains and gently disentangles himself from Kili, “But I wasn’t sure what was happening and Gandalf had to leave urgently, so I thought I’d better come along.”

The King under the Mountain appears. Wrapped in dark furs, Thorin looks more regal than ever.

“Thorin!” Bilbo exclaims, a smile blossoming on his face.

And then he realizes that everything is wrong. A cold, desperate shine covers Thorin’s eyes, rendering them dull and dead. His features pale, distorted and shadowed and an unsheathed blade glints in his hands.

“Uncle, what -” Fili exclaims.

Bilbo takes half a step back.

But then the blade already stuck his chest.

* * *

Wide green eyes stare up at him in pain and confusion. People scream. Somebody pulls Thorin away, jerks the blade from him. Bilbo collapses backward, somebody catches him. 

The world is dimmed, far away, a rush filling Thorin’s ears. A rush like terrible laughter. 

When he looks up, he finds the specter has not vanished. Instead, the specter stands on the other side of the entrance hall, laughing, watching as the company fights in vain to save their burglar’s life. 

And Thorin understands.

“Have I not told you,” the specter taunts and its features blur until nothing of it resembles Bilbo any longer, "You killed him."


	4. Beorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Beorn has control over himself as a bear, those bitten by skinchangers do not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, poor Thorin. Warnings for character death and superficial gore. 
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/125879628171/for-terrifying-tolkien-week-beorn-has-control)

Thorin wakes to the taste of blood in his mouth. Dirt and grime stain his hands, a shudder runs down his spine. He’s utterly naked in the early morning breeze, the wind cool against his exposed skin. Around him the world is silent. 

He blinks, his mind sluggish, memory lacking. The fight with Azog, Beorn’s, Bilbo’s change, Gandalf’s warning - 

His eyes focus. The grass around him is stained red. And just a little to his right lies a body.

“I cannot save either of them,” Gandalf announces grimly, shaking his head before the dwarves. The company titters, frightened and worried, while in the back of the room Bilbo and Thorin lie next to each other. Only one of them is expected to live through the night. 

He’d known the quest would be dangerous. Should have anticipated things to go ill, truly. But somehow he’d ignored caution, had ignored what he’d known about the things hunting Thorin, and had blindly picked out Bilbo. 

Bilbo who now breathes shallowly next to Thorin. Azog had managed to strike him in retaliation for foiling his kill - the company had only found out after the eagles had dropped them on the Carrock. The cut runs through Bilbo’s stomach from the left to the right, and deepens just at the wrong place.

Oin had taken one look at the injury and declared it fatal. 

Gandalf had reached into darkest recesses of his mind, cast for an answer among all the obskur knowledge - and come up with nothing. Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit who’d endeared himself to Gandalf as a young child, will die on this quest. It’s a bitter reward for Bilbo, and a grave burden on Gandalf’s conscience. 

* * *

A small, choking cough catches Thorin’s attention. Bedraggled, he pulls himself to his knees, looks around. The entire small clearing is soaked in blood and entrails. Some of his companions have been literally torn to pieces - and Thorin spies strands of blond hair caught under his fingernails. 

His stomach twists, but he’s too frozen for nausea to rise. A part of him understands that this is no nightmare, this is real, terribly, terribly real and not reversible. 

It’s a scene of slaughter, and only a second, weak sound breaks Thorin’s terror. He shifts where he kneels, gaze sliding over a blood-stained arm (he thinks he know the hand, but does not allow his mind the conclusion), a bitten-off face and another body with its entire jurgular missing. These are - were - his friends, and he - 

And the smallest form among them all stirs. 

* * *

Beorn observes their solemn vigil quietly. The sun has set, the shadows lengthened, and now beewax candles cast flickering light in his home. Quietly the dwarves guard their burglar as if their presence could ward off death. But Bilbo grows ever more pale and his breathing slows. 

Beorn is surprised, then, when he finds one of the younger dwarves settling next to him. 

“Master Beorn,” the dwarf begins politely, even mustering a small smile, though it does not reach his shadowed eyes, “There is a rumor I heard long ago; I was wondering whether you could confirm it.”

A strange time to be talking about rumors, Beorn thinks, but inclines his head anyway. Each to their own, and dealing with grief always is a picky subject. Beorn has his share of experience with it. 

“They said the magic of skinchangers can save lives,” the young dwarf claims and Beorn stiffens. Not a distraction, then. But a gambit, and now Beorn cannot ignore the request. 

“You do not know what you are talking about,” he says gruffly. 

The young dwarf is not moved. “But is it true?” he questions. 

Beorn glares at him. “Listen closely,” he states, lowering his voice lest the other dwarves hear of it, “Skinchanger magic is not what you think it is. It is no magic at all - many bitten do never revert to their former body, and none retain their mind once changed. You’d not save your friend - you’d turn him into an animal.”

The young dwarf’s eyes harden. “But he’d live,” he says, and then - without hesitation - picks out the unspoken truth of Beorn’s words, “And there is a chance he will live as himself and only transform at will - like you.” 

And even though he has seen so much destruction, Beorn still cannot lie. “Aye,” he confirms. 

Steely eyes turn to him. “Then do it!”

* * *

Blood bubbles from Bilbo’s mouth. The hobbit’s eyes are glassy, unfocused, but he’s conscious and notices Thorin when he drops down next to him. Giant claw marks run down the hobbit’s torso; his clothes are soaked in blood. He shouldn’t be alive.

“Bilbo,” Thorin whispers, his voice breaking as he reaches out, “Oh, Bilbo, no -”

Not when they fought so hard to save him, not when Bilbo of all of them should never have gotten into such a position again. Has it only been days since they carried him bleeding and dying to Beorn’s abode? Days since the skinchanger reluctantly agreed to the smallest of bites and thereby saved his life?

“Tho - “ Bilbo stutters, coughs. Tortured green eyes seek out Thorin’s and he wishes he could ease the pain in them. “I -”

“Shh, be still, Bilbo,” Thorin mutters, casting around in vain for something to do. The wounds are too large, too deep. He has no fabric to bind them, no yarn to sew them closed - and it would not save him. 

“Please, Thorin,” Bilbo whimpers, body jerking on the ground. Something wet trickles down his face, and Thorin realizes that Bilbo is only alive because the magic of skinchanger blood fights against the inevitable.

It’s torture. 

Thorin closes his eyes for a moment, then reaches out a shaking hand to smooth the hair from Bilbo’s forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, “I didn’t -”

Didn’t mean to do this. Didn’t mean for any of this to happen - 

Bilbo’s lips quirk. “Couldn’t - “ But he never finishes the sentence as another coughing fit overcomes him and fresh, dark blood spills from his lips. 

What monster is he to have done this to his companions, Thorin wonders, what monster -

He doesn’t remember what he changed into. It must have been something horrifying. 

* * *

“A bunny!” Kili exclaims cheerfully, “A bunny!”

On the cot where Bilbo Baggins rested now sits a fluffy bunny, adorably scrunching his nose in a move uncannily similiar to Bilbo. Thorin finds himself relieved and amused, Gandalf relaxes visibly and even Beorn looks gladdened.

The skinchanger had insisted they stay for Bilbo’s first transformation. They’d all dreaded what the hobbti would turn into and Beorn had warned them - skinchangers retain their mind when changed, those that are turned, do not. Their instincts will rule them, and they will not recall who is friend and foe until the change is over.

And - more frighteningly - Beorn had told them there was no knowing when a change would occur or what would trigger it or how long it would last. 

They’d been anxious. To see now that Bilbo Baggins has transformed into a very cute rabbit, however, is likely the best possible outcome. Even if the rabbit is rather unhappy at being cuddled and even bites Thorin’s finger.

* * *

Thorin holds Bilbo’s hand until his heart stills. It doesn’t take long in the end - the magic too weak compared to the injuries dealt to him. And Thorin sits alone among the scene of slaughter, the only survivor with the blood of his kin and friends on his hand. 

He throws his head back and roars. 

Allows the grief to take him. Does not notice the shift - his skin change and harden, his body lengthen. With loud cracks his bones realign themselves, his nails stretch out. Heat surges in his center, his voice grows deeper.

And from a field before Mirkwood a giant black dragon takes flight. 


	5. Tom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company runs afoul of the Old Forest and the Barrow Downs. Tom Bombadil appears to save them. At least to Thorin's knowledge.

Thorin gasps for air. His clammy hand is cramped around Bilbo’s, and he hurried after the hobbit, stumbling over twigs and stones. Branches tear at his clothes, cut his skin and he can scarcely breathe.

He casts a glance behind, and the treeline has been swallowed by the fog. Thorin remembers watching it before, seeing it roll in from the barrow-downs. Can still feel these icy tendrils reaching for him. 

He’d thought it was a normal fog. Had thought everything in order - he’s travelled on the Great East Road before. And while the barrow-downs and the Old Forest has never appeared inviting, he’d not expected the land to turn on them so violently. A shudder runs down his spine - his companions - 

Nori had been the first to disappear - he’d simply vanished from their camp, his blankets and pack undisturbed and not a trace to be found. While Dori had panicked and Dwalin searched for clues, Bilbo had spoken up.

“It’s the land,” he’d said, “The wraiths have claimed him.”

Thorin had not wanted to believe it.

Then the fog had grown thicker. Bofur and Bombur had been swallowed just like that - one moment they were there, then the fog had grown thicker and they were gone. 

“Stand back,” Bilbo had yelled, “It’s the wraiths!”

And then, for a split second, Thorin had seen them. Pallid, unreal figures rising from the mist, slender and cruel and ageless and unearthly. 

“What magic is this -” he’d caught Balin muttering, while his feet had drawn him backward, “What evil - “

And then a wraith had reached out and Balin, too, had gone. Thorin had flinched then, and Bilbo had gripped his hand and pulled him backward firmly. 

“We need to go!” he’d called, “Head to the forest!”

Ori had flinched. “That’s not safe!”

“There’s something -”

“Fili!” Kili’s scream cut short Bilbo’s answer, and Thorin glanced to his left just to see his nephew’s silhouette disappear into the fog. 

“No, Kili!” he’d cried, “Fili! Come -”

Bilbo had shaken his head. “No, this way!” And begun to drag him away. 

* * *

They’d lost Oin and Gloin before they’d reached the forest. Then the roots had claimed Dori, and then Bifur, and before Thorin had realized it, only him and Bilbo remained, their harsh breathing shattering the unearthly quiet of the night.

And still the fog kept coming after them, while the forest kept hindring them. 

“Where are we -” Thorin gasps, stumbling as another branch cuts him across the cheek. 

Bilbo turns to look behind, eyes wide and wild. Gandalf’s burglar possesses more spine than Thorin expected, but that’s meaningless when his company is gone and they are the only ones remaining. Thorin cannot fathom what occured - how everything could fall apart in so few hours - 

“There’s a rumor,” Bilbo says, slowing down a little. Strangely enough, a path seems to open for him, “An old tale my mother told me. Deep in the Old Forest there lives a jolly fellow and his beautiful wife.”

Thorin has never heard of such a tale. Bree-lore, he knows, deems the Old Forest utterly evil. “But -”

The sound of silvery bells cuts through the night. Abruptly the fog receeds, the air grows calm and tranquility seems to reach out and wrap around Thorin. The twigs now caress his hair, the ground under his feet becomes soft and the entire forest suddenly feels magical. 

A deep voice sings:

> “Hey! now! Come hoy now! Whither do you wander?
> 
> Up, down, near of far, her, there or yonder?”

And from the depth of the forest emerges a man, though he is not tall enough to be a man. Slightly taller than Thorin himself, and though he is utterly unarmed, decked with green leaves in his hair and wearing bright yellow boots, he still feels utterly strange and unreal. 

Bilbo, though, breathes a sight in relief. “Here!” the hobbit shouts, “We’re here!”

And the stranger stops before them. He studies Bilbo and a smile spreads over his face. “Now, lad, you would not be sweet Bella’s son?”

In another bizarre turn of the night, Bilbo summons his manners - and this must be a nightmare, Thorin thinks, for they are in the middle of a bewitched forest after encountering wraiths, and his sole remaining companion decides to exchange pleasantries with the latest stranger. 

“She has passed,” Bilbo informs the stranger, whose face falls. “Had I known,” he mumbles, while Bilbo turns to look at him. 

“She spoke fondly of you,” he assures him, “Not often, and I fear the passage of time may have dimmed my memory - but you would be Tom, would you not?”

“Yes, indeed, Tom Bombadil, at your service,” Tom inclines his head and around them the air shudders, as if a powerful magic spell had just snapped into place. 

Thorin looks to Bilbo, yet instead of fear he finds a strangely determined glint in their burglar’s eyes. 

“I have a request,” Bilbo begins -

* * *

Thorin awakens in their camp near the Great East Road. His entire body feels sore and exhausted, and for a moment he can’t quite remember settling down for sleep the night before. But that’s probably just because the days have been blending together, and he thinks he dreamt ill.

But that sensation vanishes quickly. 

Especially when Gandalf’s burglar helps Bombur hand out breakfast, and Thorin grimaces once more at the wizard’s choice. Not only a hobbit, but also blind in one eye - Gandalf certainly has a lot of faith in this one.

* * *

Half a year later, Bilbo parts from Gandalf on the borders of the Shire. But instead of heading to Bag End, he sets out for the Old Forest. Even in bright day light, the trees are uncooperative and Bilbo only pushes forward until he thinks he must be approaching the borders of Tom Bombadil’s lands. 

“Tom Bombadil!” he calls, fishing the ring from his pocket. 

“Bilbo Baggins,” Tom greets when he bursts from the trees, cheerful as ever. Bilbo cannot stop himself from smiling in return. 

“This is for you,” Bilbo says and holds out the One Ring. Gandalf may suspect, but Bilbo has known - he’d sensed it, and confirming it with the help of Erebor’s extensive libraries had not been difficult. 

Tom does not reach for it. “The One Ring?” he inquires with a chuckle, “What do I want with it?”

Bilbo shrugs. “Do with it whatever you want. I have a request.”

* * *

And though the Battle of the Five Armies almost claimed the lives of the line of Durin, they all pulled through by a hair’s breadth. The chronicles call it a miracle, a blessing. 

Bilbo Baggins, consort under the mountain, smiles to himself and begins to pen another letter to Tom Bombadil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt from [acornshields](www.acornshields.tumblr.com) and originally posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/125706855487/idk-if-your-taking-prompts-but-i-think-you-could)


	6. Do you know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was: Thorin doesn't know he's dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/125631234924/you-said-you-were-taking-horror-prompts-thorin)

The days pass in a blur. Around Thorin the air feels still, suffocating, and in Erebor’s dim light, he cannot tell whether it is day or night. Sometimes he sees his companions, and they speak to him. But always their voices remain distant, out of reach. A golden haze covers everything - 

Even Bilbo’s betrayal does not break the spell. 

Only the battle finally shatters it. 

He wanders back toward the mountain, exhausted. His head spins, his body feels strangely light. They have won, Thorin thinks and watches as the rising sun unveils his surroundings. But it’s a victory bought with many lives and as he wanders past dismembered bodies, the dead and the dying, it does not look like victory to him. 

In the distance he spies familiar faces - Dain’s folk, dwarves he ones knew. But their faces look grim and grieved. They do not see Thorin, and Thorin decideds not to interrupt their grief. He will learn who they mourn soon enough. Now he wants to find his companions, his nephews. His burglar. 

Thorin prays they all survived, else he does not know how to face the furture. 

Hastily errected tents greet him. Familiar banners flutter overhead, marking them as Dain’s camp. Healers hurry between tents, runner carry water and bandages. Blood-splattered warriors sit on the ground, their eyes empty and frozen, while from the inside, pained screams and dying moans emerge. More will die before the day is over, Thorin thinks, and is glad no one seems to recognize him or makes to stop him.

In the middle sits a large camp, and Thorin finds his feet heading there. Hopefully Dain lived through the battle, hopefully -

Relief surges through him when he catches sight of Dori and Bombur next to the tent, and soon he catches sight of the others. His nephews sit outside, heads bowed with grief and shock, a white bandage wrapped around Kili’s head, but wonderfully alive. Dwalin blocks the tent’s entrance, solid despite the long cut running over his nose. Nori, Ori, Gloin and Bifur stand a little distanced, talking quietly among themselves.

None has seen Thorin yet, and he takes the moment to breathe deeply. To thank Mahal that his companions so far appear alive, mostly unharmed. Thought their expressions look grave, and Thorin wonders who is being treated in the tent.

While he contemplates the question, the entrance flap is pushed aside and Bilbo emerges. The hobbit looks grey, wary, but he’s upright and walking, and Thorin’s heart skips a beat. Bilbo’s eyes find his. 

For a moment Thorin recalls the angry words he last spat at him, recalls how light and breakable that body felt under his hands - what he almost did. Bilbo’s eyes, however, hold no recrimination, only exhaustion and when Thorin walks toward him, the hobbit matches his direction.

“Bilbo,” Thorin begins, even though he realizes that he has no right to address him so familiarly, “Are you unhurt? Are you well?” Why is he here, why did he not flee? Did not Gandalf spirit him away in time?

“I would apolo -”

“What is it?” Ori calls loudly, cutting over Thorin’s words. Thorin looks up and sees Bofur has left the tent, too. The dwarf looks haggard, unwell and utterly grieved. 

“How is he?” Gloin echoes, and Bofur shakes his head, shoulders bowed. The world seems to grind to halt in that moment, and Thorin realizes something terrible must have passed.

But they are all accounted for - 

“He’s gone,” Bofur mumbles, the wind carrying his words over to Thorin, “He’s -”

Thorin glances at Bilbo, who smiles sadly at him. But who was in the tent? Who is gone - 

Oin and Balin follow on Bofur’s heels. Their healer exhausted, bloodspattered, while Balin looks aged. He casts a glance at the comapny, presses his lips together. 

“They are both gone,” Balin says, “Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins have passed on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, if you enjoy these there are some more still on tumblr and with Halloween and a 2nd terrifying Tolkien week coming up, there will be mooooore *evil laughter*


	7. Those that survived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some dwarves survived inside Erebor. They worship Smaug. And will hunt down the company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt from [kuro](www.kurosmind.tumblr.com) and originally posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/126117819967/so-uhm-horror-prompt-there-are-still-dwarves-in).

They only discover the runes after Bilbo left. Bofur spies them when his fingers brush over the stone. He senses the uneveness, the feel of an unnatural touch to the stone - a cold shudder runs down his spine - and calls over Bifur. His cousin’s eyebrows rise, and a  short exclamation summons both, Ori and Balin.

“What is it?” Kili asks, straining his neck to catch sight of the strange runes. Strange they are - Bofur has never learned Khuzdul, but even to him they look unfamiliar. Reshaped. 

Balin turns to them, his face pale. “A warning,” he announces, and glances to Ori. The young scholar nods. “It’s a variation on the local dialect. More … guttural.”

Something, Bofur thinks, is wrong. Terribly wrong. 

“What does it say?” Dwalin barshly inquires. Thorin next to him crosses his arms, though his eyes stray back to the darkened tunnel. They’re all waiting for some sign of their burglar, more than anything.

Ori shifts, and Balin frowns. “This… says, ‘Do not enter, for the dragon guards this domain and all within it’.”

Unease swells in Bofur’s chest, though before he can put a finger to it, Fili speaks up: “But that’s … the truth?”

A grim smile crosses Ori’s face. “All dwarves in Erebor either fled or died when Smaug came. Who then, wrote this?”

Bilbo watches, crouched behind a pillar and frozen in horror. It had been luck he’d spied the movement before he’d gotten far in the treasury. Luck, that he had decided to wear his ring. 

There are dwarves in the mountain. 

Dwarves where nothing but a dragon should live, but Bilbo cannot see a trace of said dragon. Instead, he observes the unexpected dwarves with baited breath. They converge in the middle of the treasury, in a circle formed among the gold. The outline of red gemstones within looks foreign, almost like a magic rune or spell -  something cold runs down Bilbo’s spine. 

All the dwarves wear rubies, too. What does it -

“It’s Oakenshield,” one of the dwarves announces, his voice deep and scratchy, “He has returned.”

“He will never reclaim Erebor,” another interrupts, and the group nods fiercely. Bilbo catches sight of further movement back in the treasury. The group in the middle alone counts twenty at least, if there are more -

How did they survive? How do they live?

Well, Bilbo tells himself, they might just be cashing on the rumor about the dragon and the contents of Erebor’s treasury. 

“We will not let any escape,” another dwarf vows darkly. Bilbo shudders. He needs to warn his friends, needs to get out. But the dwarves block the way to the exit - even with his magic ring, he cannot move past.

“Where are they now?” another dwarf asks, his hands straying to a blade strapped to his waist and Bilbo shudders.

“Hunkered down outside the secret entrance,” is the reply, and mutters rise. “So they found it,” one observes, while another protests: “How did they know? It was supposed to be secret.”

“He’s Oakenshield,” somebody replies, “If anyone would know, it’s him.”

“Then let’s get him and be done,” one dwarf states and they all nod in agreement. Bilbo bites down on his lip. He needs to go, now - 

“We’ll split up,” another dwarf suggests, “In case any of them try to slip through. I doubt they’d be sitting outside the secret door if they were not waiting for somebody.”

And Bilbo’s blood runs cold.

* * *

The moment the congregation disperses, Bilbo is on his feet. His mind spins, he wonders if he can take a shortcut, how to reach his companions before these dwarves get to them - 

He’s barely rounded a corner when a pair of arms shoots out and drags him back. The heels of Bilbo’s feet scrape the ground, he squirms in the unforgiving hold, tries to yell - but a huge hand falls over his mouth and his head is pulled back against a hard chest. Bilbo kicks out in vain, and the light fades as he is dragged deeper and deeper into a corridor.

Outside, footsteps hurry past. 

Despair wells in Bilbo’s chest, tears prickle at his eye. Not like this, not here - he needs to warn the others, needs at least to tell them. He doesn’t want to know what these twisted dwarves here will do to him, what they will -

“Peace, Master Baggins,” a familiar voice whispers next to his ear. Abruptly, Bilbo realizes that he knows these arms, these rings - and then he is released and when he looks over his shoulder he sees that it is Thorin there.

Relief and confusion rise, and Bilbo feels himself sway. Thorin reaches out and holds him by the shoulders. “Are you alright?” the dwarf inquires, leaning close, “Are you injured?”

Bilbo shakes his head, fighting to reclaim his equilibrium. “No, no,” he stammers, “I’m alright. But what are you doing here?”

Hadn’t they agreed to wait until Bilbo returned? Hadn’t the company insisted only Bilbo could go? What -

Thorin purses his lips angrily, but the emotion is not directed at Bilbo. “We found runes,” he whispers, “Took us a moment to make sense of them, but it turns out Ori’s reading was correct - there are dwarves in here, and they have allied themselves with Smaug.”

Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. “Allied with Smaug?” he echoes, fear creeping back into his veins.

Thorin nods. “Or something. We need to get out.” He turns on his heel, hand clamping down around Bilbo’s wrist and pulling the hobbit along. 

“What about the others?” Bilbo asks, stumbling after Thorin.

The King looks over his shoulder. “I told them to go back to Laketown.”

* * *

Bilbo wonders what Thorin told them to allow him to come alone, how Dwalin and Balin would be willing to let Thorin enter on his own. But he does not speak his mind as he stumbles after Thorin, feet slipping on cold stone.

They pass iron cages, hanging over a deep pit. 

Bilbo sees skeletons within, and has to turn away.

On the other side of the pit, there are iron beams. Chains dangle from them - and caught within these chains are bones. Not animals bones - 

Bilbo’s stomach twists. He presses a hand to his mouth, and misses Thorin jerking them to the side and behind a corner. 

Two dwarves pass, proud and unafraid, their hair greasy and their eyes alight with an unholy glow. “They’re here somewhere, have you heard?” one asks, excitement coloring his voice, “Oakenshield has entered the mountain.”

Bilbo flinches, Thorin stiffens. But the dwarves do not look into their direction.

“Well, then all we have to do is hunt them,” the other dwarf laughs, “And then, then we can ask Smaug what to do. I wonder if he will want to roast them or eat them? Or maybe make Oakenshield watch his kin -”

Bilbo grabs Thorin’s sleeve before the dwarf can jump from their hiding place. His own blood burns, and he wants nothing more than to tear these dwarves limb from limb. 

“We need to get out,” Bilbo whispers. Rage flickers in Thorin’s eyes, warring with rationality - but he nods. 

* * *

Thorin leads them lower and lower. Past dizzying staircases and the rotting remains of once living beings. These, Bilbo realizes, are not dwarves that died when the dragon came - these have died recently. 

And all, all died by brutal murder.

The mountain is deathly silent. Their footsteps seem to echo like thunderclaps, and Bilbo wonders how their breathing has not yet alarmed the dwarves here to their presence. 

Thorin’s hand on his is his lone safe line. 

The rest of this is a nightmare.

* * *

Bilbo does not know how much time passes. They turn corners, hide from dwarves. Always, always these dwarves talk of finding them. Of hunting them down. Of killing them once they are found. 

Crouched beyond a fallen pillar, Bilbo leans close to Thorin, trying in vain to block out the terribly words. He cannot - and then the tune changes.

“The company has been caught,” a dwarf announces gleefully, “Though Oakenshield has not been among them.”

“He will come out,” the other dwarf assures, “He will come once they begin screaming.”

And this is too much for Thorin. The King steps forward, drawing his sword. “You will not -” Thorin hisses, “Touch my King!”

With shaking hands Bilbo reaches for Sting, desperate to follow - because there are footsteps now, footsteps and shouting and evil voices crying “he’s here, he’s here! Look! Look! He’s come!”, and Bilbo realizes that they are trapped.

Hungry eyes look upon him, and Thorin must understand it too - His eyes find Bilbo’s, plead for understanding - and then he pushes Bilbo from the walkway.

* * *

Bilbo awakens as the ground beneath him stirs. It is cold, hard, made from many small stones. A clinking noise fills the cavernous hall when it shifts, though nothing here lives, and Bilbo blinks.

A golden glow meets his eyes, and he realizes he lies on mountains of gold. Coins and jewels and riches, piles up higher than houses, spread farther than a town. His breath catches, he comes awake -

And the ground shudders again.

“Hello there, little hobbit,” a deep voice whisperes, “And welcome to my realm.”

From the gold bursts a giant head. A dragon’s head.

Bilbo’s blood runs cold. Terror freezes him to the spot, he cannot move, not even reach for the ring in his pocket. Faced with Smaug’s size, all becomes irrelevant and he cannot even remember what brought him here. 

“I would have eaten you in your sleep,” Smaug hums, as more and more of his body emerges from the giant piles of gold, “But you have something on you. Something which calls to me. Something magic.”

Bilbo shivers. “What is - “

Smaug huffs, and a cloud of hot, fetid breath hits Bilbo. He bends over, coughing violently.

“I want it,” Smaug demands. 

Bilbo swallows. Smaug could kill him and have it, why then- 

“And I want you to give it to me,” the dragon continues, “I feel, it feels as if I cannot take it. I feel as if - as if you have mastered it.”

Bilbo’s heart begins to race. Does Smaug mean his magic ring? What mastery is there - does the dragon truly covet it so much?

“Give it to me freely,” Smaug suggests, “And I shall save your dwarves.”

Bilbo looks up. This - 

“Think about it, little hobbit,” Smaug’s voice purrs in Bilbo’s mind, “Your loved ones would be safe forevermore. The King, the brats. Even your folks in the Shire would never have to fear a thing again.”

Bilbo shudders. He shouldn’t, shouldn’t even be thinking about this, but - 

“Not death, not illness,” Smaug continues, “No pain or suffering.”

How can he promise this, a part of Bilbo wonders, how could this become truth - 

A pained cry from above echoes. 

“What about the others?” Bilbo asks, and darkness blossoms in his chest, “Would you burn them?”

Something like a smile stretches across Smaug’s features. “Gladly.”

* * *

Once more Thorin witnesses dragonfire burst forth in his mountain. Once more he listens to the dieing screams of dwarves. 

But this time his heart beats with renewed hope, with a dark prayer as his enemies burn in the flames. From the depth of the mountain the dragon emerges, giant and glittering, its eyes fiery and seeking. They look over all, look and find, and burn only those that are not of Thorin’s company. 

And then Thorin spies the small figure standing before Smaug. 

But Bilbo Baggins is not afraid of the monster behind him. Nor does he fear the terrified dwarves - no, Thorin realizes, Bilbo does not fear anything because Smaug and him have forged an alliance. The dragon burns those Bilbo points to  - those that used to worship him - and Smaug does so gladly. 

His wings fan the flames, heat brushes past Thorin’s face. And then Bilbo is next to him, opening the chains and pulling Thorin away from death and destruction. Thorin looks down into wide green eyes - that now have gained another hue. 

“We are safe, Thorin,” Bilbo tells him with a mad smile, “Safe. Smaug will protect us. He will help us. Help us gain everything we wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Halloween approaches - feel free to drop me a horror prompt or two. XD


	8. Replacement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin wakes up, confused. Quite some time must have passed since the battle - but all is well, Bilbo reassures him.
> 
> But is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Errr. Apologies Thorin.

Thorin jerks awake with a shudder and a dry cough. His throat feels like sandpaper; parched as if he’s not drunken in ages, and a hand sets a cup of blissfully cold water to his lips. 

“Careful, careful,” somebody says, while caressing Thorin’s hair, “Don’t drink too fast.”

Thorin empties the cup, breathes in relief. Reality asserts itself – he recognizes the ceiling, the room and the bed. The fabrics feel richer than they should, and the last time he looked at the mosaics on the ceiling they were worn and dull. Now the gold shines and the missing gems have been replaced.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin whirls around to see a familiar figure seated at his bedside. Bilbo Baggins wears a dark blue coat, decorated with Durin’s symbols and of obvious dwarven make. The garment looks wonderful on him – and perhaps much more time passed then Thorin remembers.

The last thing he recalls is passing out on Ravenhill, with Bilbo pleading for him to stay alive.

“Bilbo,” he rasps, glad that he survived after all. The Valar must have had mercy, though he had been so certain he’d die. “What … happened?”

Bilbo smiles. There are new lines surrounding his eyes, speaking of exhaustion.  “Don’t worry, Thorin. You’re back – just rest, and once you have recovered, I will tell you.”

Thorin’s recovery takes longer than he wants it to. His body is stiff, unresponsive and sometimes acts like a creaky, aged machine. But he learns a lot during his time of covalescence. 

While nobody is precise, he must have slept for months if not years. Long enough to make it necessary for Fili to step up and accept the crown. And the short moment during which Thorin sees his nephew, he seems to have aged by decades. 

But he shoots down Thorin’s proposal of relieving him of this burden.

“You have won us the mountain, uncle,” Fili tells him with a gentle smile, “It is time for you to enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

Thorin agrees. And in truth, despite his impatience with his body, he enjoys spending hours with Bilbo on end. The hobbit insists on personally assisting his recovery, and he does it with surprising skill. He always anticipates just what Thorin needs, when things become too much, and when to push further. 

It is thrilling, it is wonderful. 

And it makes Thorin forget about the rest of the world.

He has grown distant, he finds. Erebor is prospering, and many, many dwarves have arrived while he slept. The grand halls have been repaired, new houses are being carved. Heat from the forges warms the mountain, and they lack for nothing. It is a beautiful world, that feels like something Thorin only knows from distant memory. 

Bilbo laughs and leans closer when he confesses this. “I sometimes feel the same,” he admits, “Simply by being a hobbit. This is all so strange and new – look at it as an adventure.”

Thorin nods. 

“One you aren’t actually responsible for,” Bilbo adds, and Thorin finds his own lips twitch. He still recalls the crushing weight of responsibility that threatened to suffocate him all his life. Sometimes he misses it. Nowadays, he feels like floating – without aim, without purpose.

“Don’t you want to go home?” Thorin asks, resting his hand upon Bilbo’s. The movements still feel a bit stiff. 

Bilbo’s eyes find his. “My home is here now. I couldn’t leave you.”

***

And so time passes. Thorin sometimes feels like a ghost in his kingdom, since his former friends and company members keep very busy. Whenever they see him, Thorin thinks they’ve all matured, they handle their responsibilities with skill and grace and he is proud on their behalf.

It doesn’t change that he does not quite have a purpose.

On one of the few days that Bilbo is not with him from dusk to dawn, he wanders. Down, down, down toward the royal crypts. Into the passages that only the royal family and their chosen friends may access. 

He’s somewhat surprised to find traces of recent usage. But perhaps restoration work has been taken place.

So Thorin follows an invisible pull – he doesn’t quite comprehend where his feet are leading him, but there is a draw. A pulse in his chest that compels him to move forward, turn off the main passage and go to a nonedescript wooden door. 

He knocks. “Aye, d’ye need somethin’, Bilbo?”

Bofur. Whatever is he doing here?

Thorin doesn’t reply, instead he opens the door. It swings aside with a grown, allowing Thorin to gaze into a large, well-lit chamber. 

Full of dolls.

No, not dolls- 

His blood runs cold. They are life-sized, perhaps large. Some naked, all male. Not all complete, some miss arms, legs, hair. Some are broken. A spear in the chest, a missing head. 

But they all share the same statue. The same features.

They look like Thorin.

Horrified Thorin takes a step forward. The stone table in the room’s center, he realizes, is no table. It’s a stone coffin, one with a crystal cover that shows who rests inside. A terrible idea forms in his head; and he moves, though he doesn’t want to, because this can only be a nightmare.

How could this be real?

The body in the coffin is his own. Lying there, peacefully, dressed in his travel furs, is Thorin Oakenshield. 

But that cannot be.

Thorin brings up his trembling hands before his eyes. How can this be real? How can he be in the coffin, when he is standing next to it, alive and breathing. The multitude of silently watching, incomplete dolls suggests an answer.

Thorin raises his head.

Before he can speak, something heavy connects with it. He knows no more.

***

“Aye, he came here all on his own,” Bofur tells Bilbo, while the hobbit crouches over the fallen doll. The skull has caved in, and the spilled oil looks a lot like blood. 

Bilbo has since grown used to both. “That is the second time,” he says and straightens, “And this one was … well, he was playing along very nicely.” A shadow of an old heartbreak crosses his eyes.

Bofur sighs. “I can have a new one ready by tomorrow.”


	9. Over and Over Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time Loop gone wrong. Or Bilbo gets a chance to do things over again - but not all is as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence, murder and character death. :3  
> Also, this is quite short, and was originally posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/136839380462/over-and-over-again).

“I can go back, do it all over again?” Bilbo asks.

“Yes,” the bodyless voice replies.

“I could save them?”

“Yes.”

Something hardens in Bilbo’s chest. If he can save Thorin, Fili, and Kili, living through everything again will be worth it. With his knowledge, he ought to be able to alter the course of events - perhaps even avoid the most uncomfortable parts of their adventure. 

“You will have to kill yourself in order to achieve what you wish,” the voice tells him. 

Bilbo shudders. “How so?” As uncomfortable as the idea is, he does not mind. Not since Thorin’s blood stained his hands (he still sees it).

“You will be sent back,” the voice explains, “Where the Bilbo Baggins of that time exists, too. But there cannot be two of you.”

That would indeed cause some confusion. “Will not killing myself then erase me entirely?” Bilbo inquires. 

“No,” the voice returns, “You will continue to exist. The moment you are sent back, you will replace the Bilbo Baggins you kill.”

Bilbo swallows. Goosebumps cover his arms, but he forces himself to hold onto his resolution. “Alright,” he says, his voice coming out faint, “Alright.”

He opens his eyes in Bag End. Sting is tied to his side, while somebody hums in the kitchen. The smell of baking fish reaches Bilbo and he knows when he arrived. 

Alright, he tells himself. 

Bilbo Baggins, burglar of the company of Thorin Oakenshield and survivor of the Battle of the Five Armies, can take a life. It’s not quite so bad, he tries to tell his rebelling conscience - it’s only himself. He’s not harming anybody else after all, and in the end - the life of Bilbo Baggins does continue. 

He ignores the queasiness in his stomach. Draws Sting, pads forward silently.

Bilbo Baggins, respected bachelor of Bag End hums quietly to himself, ignorant of the danger coming his way. But at the last moment (when Sting is already moving to strike) he turns.

Sting slices through the soft flesh of Bilbo Baggins’ throat like butter. The hobbit drops to the floor, dead before Bilbo the burglar has even gathered his senses. 

A pool of blood spreads out from the still body and touches Bilbo’s feet. His stomach churns (the liquid is still warm), and he realizes he needs to act. Dwalin will arrive soon - and he has a body to dispose of.

(At least the blood won’t be too difficult to hide. The carpet he remembers covering the ground in the entrance hall isn’t there, but it should be around and he can just spread it over the bloodstains).

“The cellar…” a voice in his head whispers. 

* * *

And so Bilbo drags the body of this other version of himself into the cellar. He moves as if in a trance, the weight not bothering him at all. An invisible hand seems to guide him, lead him past his father’s wine racks and past the old furniture his mother stored until he finds a door there he does not remember.

Has it always been there?

He doesn’t know, but that does not stop his body from moving forward, opening it and stepping into the chamber beyond. 

It does not look like the rest of Bag Ends’ cellar. It probably should not even exist. The walls are bare, but piled in the middle are corpses: maybe thirty or more dead bodies of Bilbo Baggins, all splattered with blood, all violently murdered. 

He freezes. The body falls from Bilbo’s shoulder. Another corpse for the pile. 

“You will not remember any of this,” the voice speaks in Bilbo’s head again, “It would only disrupt. But know that this is as you wished: until you achieve the outcome you desire, you have to try over and over again.”


	10. Melkor's Creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aule made the dwarves, and many believe Yvanna created the hobbits. Few know that this the latter is not true; but Bilbo remembers and when all is lost after Ravenhill puts this knowledge to good use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "what if Melkor made the Hobbits?"
> 
> I added the following quote to the equation: “[…] the new possessor could (if sufficiently strong and heroic by nature) challenge Sauron, become master of all that he had learned […], and so overthrow him and take his place.” - Silmarillion, xxiv

As he stares out on the blood-covered battlefield a spark of dark determination settles in Bilbo’s stomach. Tears dry on his face, he stares into nothingness above unmoving bodies. The sun rises, somebody pats his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Gandalf says, before fumbling for his pipe. His words cannot hope to fathom the hole that has been torn into Bilbo’s being - at least the dwarves seem to sense it and leave him be. 

They should not have died.

Thorin, Fili and Kili. What fate would be so cruel as to whisk them away from the home they so wished to see again? Why was Thorin not alive to see all his toils come into fruition? What offense has he caused for the Valar to deny him even the smallest triumph?

The corners of Bilbo’s mouth sink. After his parents died he raged at the unfairness, but then he had been naive. Today, he has seen how cruel the music of the world can be. 

And he does not like it.

The day of the funeral Bilbo follows the company with his face set in stone. His injuries have been patched, and Bofur and Balin and Ori and Dori have all reached out to him, tried to help his heartbreak.

But for some hurts, Bilbo knows, there is no healing.

He looks at the three solemn bodies laid out in all the regal finery befitting their station. Beauitful and cold. Dead. 

Their lives were too high a price to pay, Bilbo thinks. Too high. No hobbit would accept it. And neither will he - there is no healing, no other option - but there is one option few know of. 

He closes his eyes. “I’ll bring you back,” he says to himself.

* * *

When Aule had created the dwarves, Melkor had become jealous. For how would Eru grant Aule his wishes, while rejecting all of Melkor’s proposals? In anger Melkor had sat down and shaped a figure from the earth.

But even if they were his own, they were not: their ears were elvish, their statue almost dwarvish and their desires mirrored those of men. They did not long for power, instead being ever hungry for food, and no matter what magic Melkor taught them with, they did not become fearsome. 

So Melkor looked for others and forgot.

But the hobbits did not.

* * *

The One Ring sits firmly on Bilbo Baggin’s finger as the fell beast he rides descends toward the mountain. Years have passed since he left - years during which he visited the libraries of elves and dwarves and men, and ever he learned more. Of the world, of magic - of necromancy. 

Until he had been dragged to Mordor, before the dark lord. 

But one who has already lost everything does not fear. And no child of Melkor needs to fear his most powerful servant - all magic Sauron cast on him reflected without Bilbo even lifting a finger. 

Until, at least, the dark lord had knelt before Bilbo. 

“Dominion over Middle Earth I will grant you,” Bilbo had said, “Grant me three things: this Ring, the lands I desire and the power to raise the dead.”

And with a last beat of powerful black wings the fell beast lands, even as Erebor’s guards rush at it in obvious fear. Bilbo slides of its back, black cloack flowing around him like water, his hood folded back to display the braids identifying him. 

“Bilbo!” somebody exclams, and Bilbo recognizes Gloin stumbling forward, “Oh, it is so good to see you again! These are dark days and the roads are no longer safe -”

“Gloin,” Bilbo interrupts with a dark smile, “It is good to see you, too. Will you take me to the crypts?”

* * *

Thorin wakes from the longest he ever slept to find his entire body stiff and sluggish. Around him all is silent and the light is dim.

It feels as if years have passed.

“Ah, Thorin,” Bilbo Baggins greets with a wide smile, “You finally woke up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted on[tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/132234051267/i-think-my-ask-got-eaten-so-sorry-if-this-comes) a bit ago. :3


	11. To Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Among magic and mechanics the line between life and death grows thin. (The injury is fatal. But there is a way, Bofur says.)

Erebor.

It has always been a place of myth. Of splendor and otherworldliness, of grand tales and extraordinary beauty. Ever has it held a special place among all dwarven kingdoms of Middle Earth. Ever have rumors of it permenated even the farthest reaches of East, North, South and West.

And there are many tales to be told.

Those of a generous mountain, revealing riches upon riches to the dwarves that came to mine her. The tale of the gem of all gems, the Arkenstone, a legend few have seen and has never been seen again. The tale of the ever-ruling King and his Consort.

It begins when Thorin Oakenshield reclaims Erebor from the last of the great dragons with a company of merely fourteen. This alone inspired songs and legends, there are children in Gondor reenacting the events. They always culminate in either Thorin’s coronation as King under the Mountain or his wedding to one Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.

Most people still are not quite certain what hobbits are. But they know of Bilbo Baggins.

It starts on Ravenhill.

Bilbo sits crouched over Thorin’s body, whispering: “One more moment, please, just one more moment”, while Thorin sucks in another shuddering breath, warmth already seeping from his body. Overhead, the eagles soar toward the valley as the sun behind them rises, but no warmth or joy reaches Bilbo as the world around him begins to fall apart.

Thorin shouldn’t die. He can’t die. Not here, not now, not when they just reclaimed the mountain.

“Bilbo!” somebody shouts, and Bilbo’s head whips around to see Bofur wave to him, “There you are! We were getting worried! It’s over, we won and all we have to do now –“

He trails off as he draws closer and catches sight of the teartracks on Bilbo’s face. Of the person lying on the ice before Bilbo, still breathing shallowly.

At the words, a quiet smile steals across Thorin’s face. “I am…” he rasps, “…glad to … hear. So now … I can…”

“No, Thorin, no!” Bilbo interrupts, his voice shrill, “Nonono, you don’t go, don’t go! No, Thorin, no!”

Thorin smiles beatifically at him, his eyes wandering to the brightening sky above and Bilbo’s heart clenches with panic. He’s losing him, Thorin is fading under his hands, and Bilbo is helpless to stop it, and a fresh flood of tears runs from his eyes.

“Bofur,” he shouts, “Bofur, can’t you do anything?”

Bofur sinks to his knees next to Bilbo, gazing at the fallen King. His face grows still, solemn.

“There is something we could try,” he says after a long pause, “It’s not considered very proper.”

“Would it save his life?”

“Yes.”

* * *

And so Thorin wakes, a fortnight later, to find his innards have been replaced with mechanics. His heart, he learns from Bilbo who looks queasy at the memory, they could save. But parts of his lungs, his liver, and his stomach had to be replaced.

But Bofur is ingenious and soon Thorin finds himself back on his feet.

He is crowned King under the Mountain in winter. In spring, he kisses Bilbo before the entirety of Erebor, and their courtship is greeted with cheers. One year later, they marry in the grandest feast many say Middle Earth had ever seen. Even the stars, they say, danced for them.

* * *

And so Erebor prospers and grows.

Thorin develops a reputation for being a fair and just ruler. The years of hardship, many say, he has never forgotten, and so he strives to protect those poor and out of luck. His subjects love him, and ever more strive to Erebor. Soon, guests from distant lands arrive, curious about the revived kingdom and its legendary ruler.

When Thorin contemplates to leave the throne to Fili, he almost causes a revolt.

“Your rule is just and fair,” an advisor tells him. “It is not the dwarven way,” another says. Thorin looks to his aging spouse, knows how he longs to see his former home just one last time and shakes his head.

He will not step down if he is so needed, but he will take an extended holiday.

However, the night before they are to leave, his mechanic innards act up. Bilbo wrings his hands, paces, and Bofur and Oin exchange skeptical looks.

“The weather outside is likely to wreck havoc on his parts,” Bofur tells Bilbo, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder, “Not in the short run, but if he’s outside a month or two, the humidity might just start corroding the workings.”

Bilbo’s face falls. His heart aches – his home is Erebor, but he is a hobbit and he misses his green rolling hills. He’d have liked to see them.

But not if it will cost Thorin’s life.

So they do not leave the mountain, except for short excursions to Dale. Thorin watches the sadness in his beloved’s eyes whenever Bilbo thinks he isn’t looking. And does what he can to make him happy.

Until things come to a head much sooner than anyone thought.

* * *

Thorin, trying to sort out a squabble concerning a gold vein between two nobles, notices the movement far too late. The hall is crowded, filled with chatter, and his mind occupied with the problem at hand. He doesn’t see dwarves shift and stumble as one pushes their way through.

Doesn’t hear the demented ranting. Or see the dagger.

“Watch out!” somebody shouts, a noble pales, Thorin half-turns and something heavy slams into his back. Thorin catches the sighs of dark blonde curls sink away from the corner of his eye, and the Dwalin is running forward and throws himself at the attacker.

The dwarf is mad. His eyes blood-shot, and even held by numerous guards he continues to rant in unintelligible Khuzdul.

Thorin isn’t listening. He falls to his knees, hands reaching out to carefully cradle the body of his rapidly paling lover. Bilbo smiles at him, one hand pressed to the stab wound on his chest. Blood spreads on the ground underneath him, and even as Oin comes running, a dreadful fear sinks into Thorin’s bones.

“No, no, Bilbo, no,” he mutters, clutching Bilbo’s other hand, and holding him close, “Please, don’t leave me. Just one more moment. Please, please!”

Bilbo smiles at him. “Tho…rin,” he rasps, fingers seeking to hold onto Thorin’s, but lacking the strength, “I-“

“Leave me through!” Oin demands, falling to the ground next to Thorin. His eyes study the wound on Bilbo’s chest, the quantity of blood already on the ground, and his face turns grim.

“Oin, please,” Thorin says, without taking his eyes off of Bilbo, “Anybody.”

“I’m sorry, lad,” Oin bends his head, reaches out to press a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, “Bilbo. There is nothing –“

“There is something,” Bofur is the one to shuffle forward. His face, once more, atypically expressionless. “Something I could do.”

“Will he live?” Thorin asks, sees his desperate hope reflected in Bilbo’s eyes.

“Aye,” Bofur says, “But I need the Arkenstone.”

* * *

The Arkenstone does not merely seem to pulse with an unnatural light. It does indeed emit pulses of energy, and Bofur has found a way to use it.

Bilbo’s heart was too hurt by the dagger, too damaged to continue to function. So now the Arkenstone sits in his chest and pumps the blood through his body. Magic, many whisper, though few know what was done to save the consort’s life.

All they know is that the Arkenstone vanished that day. And if that was the price their King paid to see his consort live, well, most dwarves do not protest it. They love their King and his Consort too much.

* * *

Life goes on. The company grows older, and death welcomes the first of them into his embrace. Dori passes, wealthy and happy, among his brothers and is laid to rest in the deep crypts of Erebor among the Kings of old. Others starts families, and soon there are more children in Erebor than in any other dwarven kingdom.

Mahal’s blessing, the dwarves call it. Granted to Erebor for the good rule of its King. May he live forever.

And it looks like it, too. Thorin ages, though his body shows only few signs except for his hair turning silver – perhaps due to his innards by now being mostly metal, pipes and cogwheels. Next to him, though, Bilbo appears to have been frozen in eternal youth.

Ever since the Arkenstone replaced his heart, he has grown to look ageless. Beautiful. His hair glints like gold, his eyes shine like sapphires and his skin seems to be cut from alabaster. He’s the most splendid creature they have ever seen – yet he is also trapped.

For the Arkenstone’s magic diminishes when out of the mountain. So he can never leave for long.

Bilbo bears it calmly. When the hour comes and Thorin passes, he thinks, he will walk out of the mountain and travel. Not westward, for he will never make it. But south, just to see more of the world before his time ends.

* * *

But when the time comes, things happen differently. The dwarves of Erebor will not see their King and Consort go. What if they lose Mahal’s favor, what if another ruler brings unrest to their prosperous kingdom?

So they overwhelm Bilbo before he can leave and his chest is pried open. His heart cleft in half.

* * *

When Thorin wakes, he can feel the magic running through his veins. His reflection in the mirror looks changed. Proud and regal. Beautiful, like Bilbo – and he finds his hobbit seated at his bedside, holding his hand, eyeing him sadly.

And as the world around him grows clearer, he realizes: they are no longer living. They are thinking, feeling machines, kept in this world by magic alone and forever tied to the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/131755727264/to-last)


	12. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin retire to the Shire, and time seems to slow.

The Shire, Thorin Oakenshield thinks after having lived there for two years, is a beautiful place. Quaint and quiet, peaceful and prosperous. Since abdicating he has learned to enjoy sitting outside on calm summer nights, lazy autumn afternoons spent curled up in armchairs, festive winter nights and the first spring picnics of the year.

“You look contemplative,” Bilbo says, settled next to him in the shade of a large oak tree. At their feet, one of the Shire’s little rivers runs by merrily. “What are you thinking about?”

Thorin casts a short look at his fishing rod, but nothing has bitten yet. “Every season here feels like a lifetime.”

 

* * *

 

Perhaps it is due to the more leisurly pace of life, but to Thorin time seems to pass slower in the Shire. There are ample opportunities to make the best of each, to celebrate all sorts of festivals. 

Seeing all the families makes him think of his kin.

“It has been a while since I last received a letter from my nephews,” Thorin comments while he and Bilbo stroll over the Shire’s market. 

Bilbo hums, eyeing the offered selection of apples carefully. “They might just be busy,” he suggests.

* * *

 

And that is indeed the explanation. The next letter is filled with unexpected news - Fili is married, Kili (inofficially) got engaged. Balin, Ori and Oin headed for Moria and a great many other things happened. 

It feels as if a lot of time passed since the last letter, which Thorin received roughly half a year ago.

“They’ll probably write even less often, now,” Bilbo cautions, and Thorin nods. A part of him missed his nephews. Wants to travel back to Erebor and visit them. But he knows that his presence may cause trouble, and so he will look forward to seeing them when they can.

* * *

 

The turn of the seasons brings Balin, Ori and Oin to the Shire. Thorin finds himself surprised at how much all those three have aged; him and Bilbo have changed little since his quest. 

“It’s all the fresh air and healthy food,” Oin explains sagely, while Balin laughs, “You’d be white, too, if you’d be trying to keep that mountain afloat.”

“And because one mountain wasn’t enough you decide to tackle another?” Bilbo deadpans. 

Ori mirrors the expression. “It appeared the lesser evil.”

* * *

 

They do not stay, seasons pass and the Shire stays the same. No letters arrive until a decade has past and Thorin’s hair counts all of five more grey hairs. Not many, and Bilbo, too, seems to age as little as the other hobbits around them.

But while Bilbo settles, Thorin grows distraught. He worries about Erebor and his kin. His friends in Moria, his sister in Ered Luin. Why have they not written? 

Few news of the outside world reach the Shire. 

* * *

 

One day a dwarven caravan passes through. They set up stalls on Hobbiton’s market one day and Thorin finds himself speaking with one of the merchants. 

“Surprised to see one of our own here,” the merchant says cheerfully, “Like in that ol’ folk tale.”

“What tale?” Thorin inquires, surprised.The quest spun tales, certainly. But his exile?

The merchant grins at him - his beard is done in an utterly unusual and distracting fashion and Thorin has to force himself to look away. “Aye, that tale about the ol’ king who gave up the crown ‘n went to settle far away. But that was ages ago. Anyway, -”

“What, sorry, when was that?” he asks, unease coiling in his chest, “The tale.”

The merchant blinks. “Eh, perhaps a hundred years ago or so?” 

Ice runs through Thorin’s body. This cannot be -  this must be fabricated! The rumor got it wrong, Thorin tells himself firmly and squashes the remaining doubt.

* * *

 

It’s raining fiercely outside and Bilbo is busy dusting off the wardrobe when the door flies open. Thorin stalks inside, distraught, a letter clutched in his hand. 

“Bilbo,” he mutters, “Bilbo -”

Bilbo drops the duster, hurries over and begins to peel the soaked clothes away from Thorin’s skin. Minute shivers races through the dwarves’ entire body. Blue, beseeching eyes turn to Bilbo.

“Bilbo, … what is happening?”

* * *

 

Moments later, they are sequested away in two armchairs, Thorin wrapped in a thick blanket while Bilbo carries in a teaset. 

“What happened, Thorin?” he asks, holding out a cup.

Thorin accepts it shakily. “I got a letter,” he murmurs, still unable to believe what stood there written in ink, “From Ered Luin - my sister has passed. From old age! And they want to ask Fili’s second son if he will take over since he’s of age! Bilbo, when did that happen? My sister is younger than I am, and when did Fili have children that have grown? What is going on?”

He feels as if he is losing his mind.

Bilbo, however, merely reacts with a small “oh”. 

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks, fear creeping into his mind. What if Bilbo - 

But his hobbit leans forward to take one of Thorin’s hands into his own, turns it over. “The Shire is something of an odd place,” he begins, “You noticed that yourself. We live on rich lands and yet have no bandits to fear…”

He turns Thorin’s hand over, traces the few wrinkles visible there. “We are not far from where Angmar once ruled. They say his magic sunk deep into the ground. Perhaps this caused it.”

“What, Bilbo?” Thorin inquires, shifts in his seat.

Bilbo does not look up. “The flow of time. It’s different in the Shire. You said yourself that seasons appear to last a lifetime. They do.”

Thorin’s blood runs cold. “What does that?”

“Time in the Shire passes differently from the rest of the world. That is why so many things happened. Why neither of us has aged,” Bilbo looks up at Thorin with an unhappy grin, “At this point, should any of us venture past the Shire’s borders, we would likely die the moment time catches up with us.”

“But here,” he says and gazes lovingly at Thorin and their surroundings, “Here we can endure for many more lifetimes. What happens outside of these borders cannot touch us here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/123232801147/i-am-definitely-going-to-regret-sending-you-this). Feel free to drop by :3


	13. Kill me first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After reclaiming Erebor, they discover a strange grave deep within the mountain.

While exploring Erebor’s deeper caverns, Bofur and Bifur come upon a strange door. The door itself is cut from stone, typically dwarven but for the strange inscriptions it bears. Neither can place them, not can Balin or Ori when shown a sketch.

Even stranger is the door’s location. On his excellent stone sense Bofur would have sworn the cavern natural. It’s deeper then the mines; they only came across it on accident.

“Still, it’s existence may pose a threat to Erebor,” Thorin rules and accompanies them down the following day.

* * *

 

Down in the depths of the mountain the air is warm and stuffy. On the surface, a snowstorm has cut them off from the rest of the world, yet down here Thorin soon strips off his coat.

Sweat covers his face when they reach the door.

“This is it,” Bofur announces and Thorin stops. He agrees with Bofur’s assessment; the cavern they are in is natural. The ground uneven, but the walls stable. Bilbo needn’t have worried so, but the hobbit still looks uneasy.

“Can you make anything of these?” Bifur inquires in Khuzdul, gesturing at the unfamiliar signs. Not in all his years can Thorin recall having seen such a script. But these symbols with their scratched endings feel ancient. Strange. A shudder runs down his spine. Something is telling him to leave this alone.

“Bilbo?” he asks of their fourth companion.

His beloved frowns. “Never seen this,” he comments, “But they do look…” Ill, Thorin thinks, though Bilbo never finishes his sentence. Unhealthy. 

“What do we do?” Bofur asks. His mattock is at the ready. If this wasn’t Erebor, Thorin would tell them to leave it be. But he cannot welcome the caravans once spring comes if he does not know what slumbers in the depth of his mountain.

“Open it,” he orders. Bofur hums and the mattock smashes the door and its strange inscriptions. Debris and dust rises in a grey cloud, enveloping the three of them - and for a moment Thorin thinks he can hear faint whispers, a noise like nails scratching on stone. 

Then the air clears and they are left looking at a dank, dark chamber. A whiff of something putrid rises, Thorin grimaces while Bifur holds out the lantern. 

“This smells like,” Bofur begins, following his cousin, and then goes “Oh.”

“What is it?” Thorin asks, hurrying after them, but freezing in the doorway. He’s glad Bilbo cannot see around him. 

For the light of Bifur’s lantern reveals bodies. Dead dwarves, their bodies piled high as far as the lantern allows them to see. They have been preserved; well preserved, since their clothes are ancient, dating from ages long past. 

“What is it?” Bilbo asks from behind Thorin. 

“A grave,” he replies.

* * *

 

Scary as that revelation had been, life in Erebor goes on. Thorin still has to look through documents and today he welcomes Balin’s long-winded reports on issues likely to bother Erebor once the snows have melted. In the flickering light of candles Thorin yet feels unwell.

Cold.

He is glad when Bilbo slides into their bed, drawing the hobbit into his arms immediately. Bilbo does not comment and Thorin eventually falls asleep listening to his heartbeat.

It’s not enough to keep the nightmares away. He finds himself facing a dark abyss, where he knows something terrible lingers. Faceless, nameless, a voice like fingernails scratching on stone. And it whispers, sybillantly, to Thorin, of decay and death. 

_We will come for you_

* * *

 

Thorin wakes, sweat-soaked, and the nightmare rests heavily on his mind during the day. Bifur and Bofur appear pale at breakfast, too, but at least Bilbo looks undisturbed. 

“How fare the weather?” Thorin inquires of Dwalin as they make their way to Balin’s office.

Dwalin shrugs. “Still snowing. Might make it to Dale, but it’s a risk.”

At least that means no new letters, demands or petitions will arrive at the mountain for another day. “Anything else?” Thorin inquires, while his mind goes through the letters he still needs to answer. 

“Nothing troubling,” he shrugs, “And maybe he’s wrong. But Bofur said some strange symbol showed up over his room last night.”

* * *

 

With his heart in his throat Thorin makes his way toward the wing the Ur-brothers have set up residence in. The chambers here are well-cut, not as ostentatious as the royal wing, but designed to amplify light and space. 

“Where is it?” Thorin demands, his fears further deepening as both Bofur and Bifur turn to him. Dwalin behind him barely keeps up.

“Here,” Bofur gestures to a spot over his door, “This. I’d swear that wasn’t here yesterday.”

Thorin glances up. It is a strange symbol - but it is not one he saw yesterday, and how could he even think that? It’s absurd. 

“Probably was there all along,” Dwalin mutters, “Just hidden under dust.”

Bofur tugs unhappily at his hat. “Perhaps. But there’s another one at Bifur’s door, too, and he only discovered it this morning, too.”

Thorin’s heart skips a beat. Meanwhile, Dwalin frowns. “What are you suggesting? That somebody is going around, carving strange symbols over people’s doors?”

It sounds absurd like this, and Bofur laughs. “Maybe they were there, all along,” Thorin hears himself agree.

* * *

 

When he returns to his own quarters that night, Thorin discovers a strange symbol above the doorway there, too.

His blood runs cold. This wasn’t here before, he knows that. Could this -

“Thorin, Thorin!” Dori shouts, running up the stairs, “Thorin, you need to come! It’s urgent!”

“What is it?” he asks, turning on his heel.

Dori bends over, gasping for air. He’s pale under a layer of sweat. “Bofur and Bifur,” he pants, “They’re dead.”

* * *

 

Bilbo is already there when Thorin arrives, kneeling silently next to his friend. Blood stains the ground, much of the furniture has been destroyed. It looks as if a fight occured. 

Oin rises from where he was crouched, resting a sheet back over Bifur’s body. Thorin catches a short glance of Bifur’s face - or what remains of it. Half is smashed in, deformed into a mass of blood and broken bone, brain and tissue. 

His stomach twists. 

“Perhaps the axe shifted,” Oin suggests quietly, “It may have caused him to snap. Kill Bofur and then himself.”

Thorin swallows down the bile rising in his throat. He glances over to Bilbo and sees the remains of a broken off spear emerging from Bofur’s chest. His mattock rests next to Bifur, stained with blood and tissue. 

Bombur stands at the back of the room, pale and utterly shocked. Thorin’s heart goes out to him - to lose his family like this. 

“Bombur,” Balin suggests quietly, “Would you like to stay with my brother and me for a while?”

* * *

 

As evening falls, Thorin wishes he had suggested they all sleep together. The strange symbol yet lingers over his doorway and with the growing darkness his irrational fears take hold.

Bilbo understands. “There have always been strange rumors in the Shire, too,” he confides, “About the old forest and what happened there. It frightened me dearly and I still would not want to be there at night.”

He wraps his arms around Thorin, draws him toward the bed. 

“You do not believe this was caused by anything … unatural?” he asks softly. Bilbo’s hands are warm on his skin, their touch soothing. And yet the knot of dread in his stomach does not entirely dissolve.

“You heard Oin,” Bilbo answers, “And while I believe there are many things in this world that are beyond our understanding, this … One of my distant cousins once fell out of a tree. Fell on his head and had never been the same since - had the most dreadful temper tantrums where he attacked people.”

“What happened to him?” Thorin asks.

“He died,” Bilbo sighs, “Wandered into a river one night. Nobody ever found out if he did it on accident or purpose, but … dreary as that tale may be, it’s completely natural.”

Thorin nods. Next to him Bilbo stretches out and arranges the blankets around him. As his beloved settles down to sleep, Thorin cannot help turn over what he saw. The one thing at odd with the explanations to him are the injuries: one cannot smash one’s own head in as well as one can stab oneself.

But perhaps it’s just him not seeing the logic everyone else sees.

* * *

 

He wakes, sweat-bathed, to the sound of scratching. Something whispers in the distance, the fire has died. Their bedroom has grown cold and Bilbo stirs next to him.

“What is it, Thorin?” he asks, uneasily. 

Thorin swallows, but the scratching does not go away. Instead it seems to grow louder. “Do you hear that?” he asks.

“Hear -” Bilbo stops and sits up abruptly. He turns to Thorin, pale and wide-eyed. “The scratching?”

Something cold runs down Thorin’s back. He nods. It’s not natural. It’s not a sound of this world. 

“Stay here,” he says and slides from the bed. Reaches for Orcrist. Dwalin and Balin will hear him if he calls for them. They will help, there is an explanation.

A few steps take him to the door. He takes a deep breath, flings it open.

Their sitting chamber gape dark. The fires have extinguished, the rooms are still and silent. Nothing stirs, but it is cold. Too cold.

A wind rises.

And Bilbo pushes past him, grim determination written across his pale features. “You’ll have to kill me first!” Bilbo shouts at the darkness, brandishing his small sword. 

“Come forward!”

The wind grows stronger.

* * *

 

Papers rise, Bilbo’s hair flutters. His eyes uneasily shift from corner to corner, waiting for the evil to reveal itself. He’ll face whatever comes - he has faced Smaug and lived!

Cold sweat soaks his bed, freezing as the air around them grows colder and colder. This is not natural, but neither was Smaug, nor were the spiders. He will - 

As he stands behind Bilbo, the hobbit does not see Thorin’s eye go dead. Does not see them change, darken. 

Does not hear as the King raises his sword and strikes.

* * *

 

Dwalin is suspicious when neither Thorin nor Bilbo appear for breakfast. He puts on a reassuring smile for his companions, but it is with great dread that he makes his way to the royal chambers. 

What he finds is beyond his worst nightmare: Bilbo’s head rests next to that small, crumpled body, sword still in hand. Thorin leans against the far wall, Orcrsit shoved through his heart. 

Over the doorway, the strange symbol has disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/123298723607/kill-me-first-with-bilbo-and-thorin). Feel free to drop by :3


	14. A Love Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One Ring falls in love with Bilbo Baggins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware of all canonical deaths recast through another lense, a throw-away reference to cannibalism, and an open ending. 
> 
> Happy Halloween :3

The One Ring has known some emotions. The ferocious greed of its Master, the mad desire of subsequent bearers, the all-consuming hunger of those that fell under its sway. Of other emotions, it has only caught glimpses. Wishes to protect, hope and love - they all twisted into grotesque shadows of themselves upon the touch of cool gold against warm flesh.

So when Bilbo Baggins picks it up in that dark, dank cave, the One Ring for the first time since its forging finds itself surprised. There is want in this soul, as well as greed and desire. But it is want for friendship and affection, a greed for friendly touches and good conversation, a desire for warm food and comfort. Not power, not blood, not strength - and the emotions do not blur or twist either, but remain as they are. 

It’s bewildering, fascinating, and utterly, utterly enchanting. 

Thus, when Bilbo slips and falls and his death in form of Gollum is about to follow swiftly, the One Ring changes its own trajectory just so. It lands on Bilbo’s outstretched finger, much to the hobbit’s (so that’s what he is, and isn’t that endearing? A creature that even its creator had no knowledge of, forgotten and unknown, and yet so bright, so bright in its heart) surprise and hides him from view. 

Bilbo, naturally, stumbles to his feet with confusion, swinging his letter opener without much skill or vigour. (The One Ring can sense the reluctance and fear within the hobbit; can tell the hobbit has no desire to use that sword). Then Bilbo has to make a choice - and the One Ring holds its metaphorical breath.

The elvish blade lines up with Gollum’s throat, and all, all others that have worn the One Ring before have not hesitated. All prefered to ascertain their safety, assure their possession, and eliminate their competitors.

Bilbo Baggins does not.

He leaps clumsily past Gollum and rushes after an odd company of dwarves, while the One Ring reels at the revelation. This is new. This is different. 

And Bilbo Baggins, after its Master, may be the first being to have resisted its power.

* * *

The company of the wizard, however, makes the One Ring unhappy. It dampens its own influence, lest it may be sensed. But the wizard has different worries, and so has the hobbit. The One Ring can sense his desire for recognition; does not understand.

The dwarves - Thorin Oakenshield most of all - seem dismissive of him. Nor very wise as Thorin’s attack on Azog proves, but the One Ring feels Bilbo’s entire heart throb with despair, with the wish to help - 

And maybe it’s just a bit of a fool’s luck and courage that throws Bilbo forward. Or maybe it’s the One Ring’s influence that inspires him to bury his little sword in the orc’s chest over and over again. The One Ring has no love for orcs; dirty and foul creatures; but it can sense its Master’s faint touch on the Pale Orc. 

Yet Bilbo’s heart burns so much brighter with its untainted affection. 

So instead of betraying its latest bearer, the One Ring lends him power. It would rather stay in those unscarred, soft hobbit hands instead of being picked up by the Pale Orc.

Bilbo has no idea.

When Thorin makes his grand apology and draws Bilbo in his arms and the hobbit’s heart lights up with happiness, the One Ring falls breathless. It has not, never before, experienced an emotion as bright and blinding as this, and can only marvel in wonder. 

And maybe that is when the One Ring, too, falls in love.

It, being an item of dark magic, does not know love. But it knows the desire to protect its bearer, keep him safe from harm, see that bright light in his soul never fade. 

* * *

Mirkwood is a challenge. The magic makes the hobbit ill, and when the spiders come the situation is dire indeed. But when Bilbo reacts to those wordless pleas and slips the Ring on his fingers, it expands its magic. It lets Bilbo know what the spiders whisper and plot, lets him know their plans and steadies his hand when he slices and stabs his way through their nets. 

There is an odd thrill to seeing a creature so soft and bright wield a sword with such force and determination, but all the black blood and bodies behind Bilbo do not dull him; they only serve to sharpen the glow within him. 

And the One Ring joyfully lends him aid when Bilbo hides in the elvish palace. Helps him steal food, find secret passages, and break out the prisoners. The One Ring is indifferent on whether it despises elves or dwarves more - but Bilbo clearly prefers the dwarves, and it will serve its bearer. 

So it helps Bilbo save them, and does what it can to save Bilbo (its hobbit, its own, as it has begun to consider him) in turn. At least the Master of Laketown easily submits to the One Ring’s presence and spoils them all with aged luxuries that are a fragment of what its Master could offer. But its Master has weakened, the One Ring senses, their time has not come. And Bilbo needs to sleep off his cold.

Mortal beings are fragile, the One Ring perceives. It has always known, but with Bilbo now mortality has gained meaning. Its Master is not so susceptible to the elements, and maybe this is why the One Ring was not supposed to be worn by mortals. But its power intrigues, and the One Ring has been intrigued in return. The passions of mortal souls are much brighter, much more colorful and variied - and Bilbo’s soul shines brightest of them all.

Like a precious gem - like that Arkenstone that twists the dwarves’ minds - Bilbo’s soul shines to the One Ring, yet so much more valuable. The Arkenstone is but a pretty rock, yet there is energy and life bound within Bilbo’s soul that the stone could never rival.

Even Smaug seems intrigued. 

And the One Ring is amused. The dwarves, the men, the elves, they all have missed the potential coiled within this small being, dismissed him for being a round, comfortable hobbit. Yet Smaug senses some of it, though his vision is by no means as clear as the One Ring’s. 

But Smaug cares not for bright souls nor the One Ring’s whispered promises when his gold comes under threat. He lashes out, viciously, and Bilbo tumbles and rolls and bruises in the process. Smaug may have been a potential ally to its Master, the One Ring fathoms, but this creature is blind and rotten. 

Smaug shall die, it decides.

Smaug dies. 

A miraculous shot by the Lakemen Bard, so the townsfolk say and the dwarves whisper. A sliver of magic infused into an arrow, a withdrawl of power from a dark creature, the One Ring knows but is content not to share. Let them have their heroes and legends; all it desires is its hobbit. 

But - and this now, even as he falls to the sickness of his line, grows clear - Thorin Oakenshield stands between the One Ring and its hobbit. Certainly, its hobbit holds the One Ring with care and affection, but his soul shines much brighter when he exchanges soft touches with the dwarf, when they sigh together. 

Yet there are shadows in that dwarf’s soul, shadows the One Ring can nourish and strengthen until they grow into visions and thoughts. Thorin’s descent into madness pains Bilbo (and paints his soul in marvellous colors of suffering; pained but wonderous still), and the One Ring comforts that poor, lonely hobbit. 

Don’t trust the dwarves, it tells him. They will only hurt you.

And when Bilbo comes up with his mad wager to stop a war, the One Ring can only lend its power with spellbound fascination. It could not have ordained a better plan itself.

“Rat,” Thorin rages, his fingers harshly closing around the worn fabric of Bilbo’s faded coat, “Traitor!” He spins the hobbits around, forces him back against the parapet, lifts him up, and the One Ring feels the surge of fear through Bilbo when his feet leave the ground, when he can hear the wind rush around him, and knows that there is only empty air behind his back.

“I will cast you to the rocks!” Thorin roars.

No, the One Ring decides, you won’t. No dwarf will harm this hobbit, not as long as there is power left for it to summon. So it sends out what tendrils it can, to the orcs amassing in the north, to its Master’s old strongholds to come here.

To come here and slay this dwarf for daring to lay hand on Bilbo Baggins. 

It doesn’t expect Gandalf the Grey to step forward. The wizard demands of Thorin to stop this madness, Bilbo shivers and shakes, and the One Ring withdraws its power before any answer can come. True, the wizard is distracted, but it will not risk being discovered, not by Mithrandir. 

Though it turns out that the wizard’s presence is a blessing. He keeps Bilbo close, keeps him from harm through all the trouble, and when the orcs arrive (late, to the One Ring, but orcs are always late. Still, it whispers to them to slay the dwarves, slay the elves, and most of all kill the one that dared to harm its hobbit) Gandalf defends them.

Only when that foolish dwarf rides out with his kin to challenge Azog does Bilbo split from Gandalf. The One Ring curses the foolishness of this hobbit, bewildered at how he can still feel so passionately about a dwarf that only hours ago would have killed him. But there is no denying the hope radiating from Bilbo’s heart, the love burning brightly within him, and this is what the One Ring will protect, will save for itself.

So it whispers to Bilbo to hide, to dodge, to twirl. Lends him strength, hides him from view, makes the orcs stumble and falter as they come close. 

It saves Bilbo.

It will not save those foolish dwarves. 

The pain that rips through Bilbo when the first dwarf dies is indescribable. Such an unfiltered, unchained emotion that shatters through the One Ring’s world in a flash of wonder; amazing in its own right, and fair, only fair, to the One Ring’s tastes. Those dwarves have no claim to its hobbit. Not after the way they treated him, not how they abandoned him to the mercy of their mad King. They shall pay the price.

Bilbo does not see it this way. His poor, naive soul frets for the dwarves, runs to their aide, and even after a stone temporarily removed him from the battle (and oh, that goblin did not live long, the One Ring made sure it was torn apart and eaten alive), the first thing on his mind are Thorin and the others. 

With blood sticking to his forehead Bilbo rushes down to Thorin’s side, afraid and hopeful and with his soul aglow in a mad rush of colors that leaves the One Ring breathless. But nothing can be done for Thorin, and though the One Ring deems it his just punishment (his hobbit; it will allow none to harm its hobbit), Bilbo cries. 

And yet for all the tears the hobbit sheds (and they are beautiful to the One Ring, beautiful as are all of Bilbo’s emotions, so untainted by the greed and desires that run in the blood of foolish men or elves or dwarves) he seems to see reason. He does not stay in that mountain, does not stay with dwarves that speak of friendship but have abandoned him once.

The One Ring is happier for it. 

It will bear the wizard’s company on the journey back, hide itself from the piercing eyes of Elrond and his like, and only when, at the borders of the Shire, Gandalf asks after Bilbo’s magic ring, it surges.

He will separate us, it tells Bilbo.

He will take me away, it whispers.

“You needn’t worry about it,” Bilbo says with an awkward laugh, “I lost it.”

Gandalf does not believe it. But the old coot does not suspect anything but odd hobbitish behaviour, and he is the fool, the One Ring crows, a fool like all the others. For all his words on the bravery of hobbits, he too, does underestimate them, does not think them capable. One day, when the time comes, he shall pay for it as well.

And the One Ring hopes Bilbo will be there to see it, will see the truth of the world, and the glory it can offer him.

For now, it will care for Bilbo’s happiness in the Shire.

* * *

So the years pass. The One Ring grows content - the Shire may offer no greatness nor glory, but it makes Bilbo content, and it makes sure the hobbit remains so. It sinks its magic into the hobbit whenever he touches it, gives him health and long life. 

Bilbo wants for nothing.

Until one day his cousins visit with their young son, and Bilbo’s heart, for the first time since the One Ring took care of that miserable dwarf King, glows with warmth and affection. Its of a different kind, the One Ring quickly realizes. Less blind, less selfless, but it soon notices that that is wrong. 

Love is not exactly a thing the One Ring understands. But it knows that Frodo makes Bilbo happy, that he makes Bilbo’s aging soul shine brighter. He’s a tolerable lad, and unlike Thorin Oakenshield feels less of a contender to the One Ring. 

So it makes its decision. With its Master strengthening far in the east, its own power has grown. Whispers have reached it, tempting it to leave the Shire. But for all the grandeur and greatness it knows that awaits out there, it will not be parted from its hobbit. No, its Master will bide his time, and the One Ring will bring Bilbo to him, so that the hobbit may know what it means to be truly treasured. 

For now, though, the One Ring will give him Frodo.

Primula and Drogo drown in what the Shire calls a freak accident. Frodo comes to live at Bag End, and Bilbo’s soul glows once more from pain, sadness, and later joy. The lad’s presence mixes with the One Ring’s own power in rejuvenating Bilbo, in maintaining his smile. 

And time passes once more. 

* * *

Then the wizard comes again. His suspicions have grown, but so has the One Ring’s power. Frodo is an adult now, no longer dependant on Bilbo, and his hobbit ready to leave the Shire behind once more. He talks of seeing mountains, and the One Ring doesn’t mind. 

They shall go past the Misty Mountains, and it will ensure no harm comes to its hobbit. Enjoy the honors of Dale and even Erebor, and there the One Ring knows its Master’s envoys will come to greet them. Then their road will turn south and Bilbo will see the glory of Mordor, and the magics of its master shall preserve his soul for eternity. 

If only it can eschew the meddling of the wizard. 

Gandalf entreats Bilbo to leave the ring to Frodo. And the One Ring likes the lad, but he’s not Bilbo, not its own hobbit. It will not take another, and it won’t risk Bilbo’s soul crumbling before the wizard’s power. So it whispers. 

Days later, Bilbo leaves Bag End on the eve of his birthday party. 


End file.
